


Not tonight

by morninghush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, angsty, jimlock, life hurts and it hurts Jim more than anyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morninghush/pseuds/morninghush
Summary: Jim's had that look too often lately. Days on end spent on the sofa. Just the two of them as the world spins out of its axis. Slowing down into constant twilight, only to hurtle them both back into reality. No more than a handful words exchanged.“Breathe, Jim. Just breathe.”“I am.”“Come back, for me. Will you? Come back.”“It’s too dark.”“I’m here. I’ve got you, Jim.”“It hurts.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> A little ficlet originally posted on Tumblr.

It’s hard to tell where it comes from, that feeling. Sneaking. Just a small shiver down his back. A tiny fragment of ice in his blood stream. The flicker of something black across his field of vision.

It’s hard to tell what exactly does it, but suddenly Sherlock’s scared. A shifting in the air flowing around him. A sigh. Maybe just the sound of fabric rustling?

Sherlock sits bolt upright on his stool, tearing his gaze away from the microscope. The sample already forgotten, it never even existed. His brain thunders into overdrive.

“Jim?”

Sherlock doesn’t recognize his own voice, but it hardly matters. The only reply he gets is the front door closing. Not even slamming, just closing. Softly.

The kernel of ice grows. His eyes have had that look lately. That distant gaze. Not a single thing in this living, breathing world scares Sherlock more than that look in Jim’s eyes.

Those times Jim will look at him without seeing. Staring straight through him. Those days when Sherlock can’t reach him any other way than just wrapping him up in his arms, pulling him down on the sofa. 

Jim will soften in his arms, eventually. Minutes pass, or hours, perhaps. Who can be bothered to mark the passing of time, when that small, fragile body slumps on top of his, ear pressed against his heart. 

Sometimes Sherlock thinks he can see Jim’s lips moving. He wonders about that. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Jim was praying. He never asks.

Whatever words leap from Jim’s mind, they always die on his lips. A sweet death that must be, Sherlock thinks. Then he doesn’t think, only weaves his fingers through soft strands of hair.

He’s had that look too often lately. Days on end spent on the sofa. Just the two of them as the world spins out of its axis. Slowing down into constant twilight, only to hurtle them both back into reality. No more than a handful words exchanged.

“Breathe, Jim. Just breathe.”

“I am.”

“Come back, for me. Will you? Come back.”

“It’s too dark.”

“I’m here. I’ve got you, Jim.”

“It hurts.”

Today there had been no words at all. Only Jim’s tiny smile as he finally got up and stole his way over to the window. The smile widening just a fraction as he stood watch over his beloved London. Watching his city wind down for the night in the slowly dying light.

Sherlock’s greatest challenge in life is pretending not to notice that distant gaze. The hollowness. But every time he closes his eyes, it’s there. Burning him.

The flat rooms an ear shattering, thundering silence after the door clicks carefully shut. Five seconds pass, an eternity. How Sherlock wishes it had been slammed in blind rage. Not this softness, not this dreamy quiet.

Adrenaline shoots through him, urging him into action. His coat hugs him as it slips around him, an odd source of comfort. A lungful of air, two steps at the time, he’s out on the street. Chasing after Jim is the wrong thing to do. Sherlock knows it is. The truth of it is etched into his soul.

Still, he does. The fabric of reality ripples around him, billowing slowly. A faint wave of nausea hits, but it’s removed, something more like a distant memory. He finds himself tracing those familiar steps. If he closed his eyes, he’d still be able to find his way. The magnet inside him pulls, relentlessly.

Maybe he did. Maybe he closed his eyes, just for a bit. When he opens them, he’s standing in the same spot he always does. Stands for a while, just watching Jim. Minutes pass, or hours, perhaps. Who can be bothered to keep track, when the soft glow from a street lamp caresses Jim’s shape; softens and blurs sharp angles and rigid limbs.

This dangerous man. This lonely human being. Sitting on a park bench, head tilted back as he watches the stars’ slow progression. Finding their constellations, long lost lovers joined again.

Jim’s face is partly concealed, but darkness is a gracious mistress tonight. Somehow, Sherlock can see the look of awe on his face, and he marvels at how it sketches a sort of angelic beauty into Jim’s features.

“Why do you always come after me, Sherlock?” A broken whisper, no more. “Why can’t you let me… go?”

Sherlock aches. The iron fist clenches around his heart so hard he’s not sure how it’s still beating. It resounds in his ears; it’s in his mouth somehow, pulsing sickeningly. He takes a step closer, two.

Jim’s head is still tilted back as Sherlock sits down next to him. “I used to feel sorry for the stars when I was a boy,” Sherlock offers.

“Sorry? For the stars?” Jim repeats, softly. His hands are cold when Sherlock twines their fingers together. Some sort of insanity rushes through him in that moment.

“Thought they were trapped, far away from everything. From everyone.”

Jim inhales. “The vastness. Just the overwhelming, immense vastness. Gone by the time their light even reach us.…” His voice has that dreamy quality again, the one that always stabs Sherlock like a dagger.

They sit, silently. Sherlock’s entire being quivers, the need to pull Jim close is like a drug he needs to resist. He can’t quite remember why. Minutes pass, or hours, perhaps. The air is crisp around them when Jim slowly leans into him.

“I’m trapped, Sherlock.” His lips brush lightly against Sherlock’s ear. “When I’m too far from everything, everyone, will you let me go?”

Air rushes painfully from Sherlock’s lungs. A soft whisper, no more, but as punishing as a death sentence. His resolve shatters in a million tiny fragments. He’s hugging, pulling, grabbing Jim, crushing him against his own body.

“Jim, I…” Sherlock swallows, thickly. He doesn’t know if his next words are lies or truth. “I will, Jim. Just not tonight. Not tonight.”

Jim shifts out of Sherlock’s grip, leaning his head against his chest, ear pressing against his heart.

“Thank you.” The relief in Jim’s voice drapes a soft veil around them. “Dearest.”

Sherlock hides away that single word, keeps it safe in that space inside that not even he himself can access freely. They know. They pretend, the both of them. Pretend they don’t see it. The black shadow hiding in darkness, just barely kept at bay by the warm glow around them.

“Not tonight,” Sherlock vows.

Jim nods and lets Sherlock wrap his coat around him. “Not tonight,” he agrees.

It’s the beginning of time and the end of it. They both know.


End file.
